


Don't Laugh

by Flyboyfan23



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Fear, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28894119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyboyfan23/pseuds/Flyboyfan23
Summary: What if both Mary and John had been killed in the fire? What if the demons had taken Sam and Dean with plans to prepare the Boy King and hide Micheal's vessel from the angels?2nd upload. Had to fix some things and change the format.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	1. Where to Begin?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to be a bit more graphic than my others- just so everyone is aware. I'm also going to attempt and keep these in chronological order but that may not happen successfully. Chapters having been coming in random order but I will make sure and make the timeline clear for each one.

Dean was smart. He knew his colors and his shapes. He knew what sounds a lot of animals made and he could almost count all the way to ten. His mom told him that he was smart again and again- all the time. When they read books, especially at night, she would point to things on the colorful pages and ask him about it. How many frogs are there? What does the cow say? Where is the orange bird? And Dean answered her, every time, and she would say that he was right.

So, when the tall man, the one that looked like a scarecrow, had laughed and called him dumb, Dean knew that he was wrong. He didn’t believe the stranger- his parents weren’t gone. They would come back. They had once left Dean for three whole days with Mrs. Heck while they went to _Four-da_ and it had only been two days now. Dean could tell because of the window.

See? He was too smart.

Dean had tried to tell him that but the man didn’t listen- he just laughed and laughed more when Dean growled at him, stomping his pajama-clad feet. The scarecrow’s voice was weird. He sounded sick and Dean didn’t like it. He just wanted his daddy. Daddy would make the man be nice.

Sniffing loudly, the four year old stopped, looking down at his dirty pajamas as he collected himself. Daddy had always said that he was a big boy and big boy’s took care of their little brothers. Which was what Dean was going to do- needed to do. He would take care of Sam, keep him happy, until his mommy and daddy got back. Cause they were going to come back.

“Where’s Sammy?” Dean demanded- again.

The Scarecrow just kept chuckling, shuffling a little as he examined the surrounding room. Narrow eyes scanned the area. Little reddish smears colored the interior of the door and dried scabs marred the child’s small fists. There was a fighter within the small package, that was clear. Water stains cut through the dirt and dust upon Dean’s cheeks and under his pert nose and the shifted dust on the floor showed exactly where said filth came from.

“Where’s Sammy?” His voice rose another octave, stamping a foot once more and causing a small dust cloud to plume up and into the air with the motion.

Again, he was ignored. The Scarecrow walked over to the sink, humming something under his breath as he examined the rusted faucet. He turned it on, turned it off, and turned it on again, letting it run until the water ran clear. “Come over and wash your face, Deano.” His voice was sleazy, slippery, like the soap his mom always helped him wash his hands with. The one that smelled like cotton candy.

But, there was no soap that Dean could see- and no Sammy. He shook his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest. A shadow of his father. “Not till I see Sammy.”

“Ddeeeannn” The man stretched out another few syllables from the name that was normal. “You need to listen to adults, you know. Didn’t your mommy ever tell you that?”

She had but the Scarecrow said the words different than his mom or dad ever did. He said it like he dared Dean not to listen- like he wanted him to be bad. The thought made Dean pause, staring up at the stranger with a furrowed brow. No adult had ever acted like this before. Examining the Scarecrow critically, Dean watched as the fingers on his right hand flexed. How his upper lip twitched and his head cocked to one side- all while still humming that weird tune.

That was the first time that Alastair had hurt him. Only the small shake of Dean’s head and Alastair had pounced. Ripping pajamas from his body, Dean had been spanked much, much harder than his daddy had ever done before and for much longer. All while singing to the music he had been humming.

<~>

It was a double-edged sword. One that could cut it’s wielder with the smallest misstep. An ultra fine line to walk but that was all part of the fun. Grooming a young Samuel Winchester into the Boy King that he was destined to be. He needed to be strong, imposing, intelligent, and possess a lust for power. He needed to become the most dominating ‘human’ that Earth, Heaven, or Hell had to offer. But he also would need to be controllable until that time came. The plan was lain out and had been for centuries. Sam would be convinced that this was the proper path or manipulated into following it anyways.

Dean Winchester was the key to that control.

While the thought, initially, to allow Dean to perish in the same nursery fire that had claimed his parents, things had changed. The small four year old had run full-tilt from the flames, Sam tucked tightly to his chest, a different call had been made. If only for the entertainment value that came from watching the Angels scramble every which way to find their ‘righteous man’ just to come up empty again and again. Hiding things from the Angels wasn’t too hard when you had the right runes.

Azazel now had the perfect vessel of Lucifer firmly in his grasp, ready to be trained and prepared, while the other side of the coin would lay, wasting away, in a dark cell. Michael’s perfect vessel doing little more than twiddling his thumbs in preparation for the climactic battle. It was perfect.

Knowing that someday the boy would need to move towards his own destiny, Alastair, the underworld’s most accomplished torturer, bid his time. Wanting nothing more than to sink his teeth into the ‘righteous’ flesh. He had been promised the honor of shattering the vessel- pushing him to the point of breaking the first seal but his work needed to wait until Sam was ready.

Unfortunately, the younger Winchester proved to have a stubborn streak a mile wide, hidden underneath the puppy eyes and dimples. Molding him into a well-honed, ruthless, weapon was proving difficult. No amount of cajoling, treats, threats, or punishments would sway the boy when he did not want to do something. When he had decided not to ‘play their games’.

But, that was when his older brother entered the picture once more.

At first, Azazel had feared that they had made a mistake. Sam had been left in the care of Dean when still young. No demon had wished to be burdened by the infant and no one had been bothered to care for Michael’s vessel either. So they had been left together and by the time that the problem had been realized, Sam had latched firmly upon his older brother. Human emotion and attachment had taken root. Disgusting sentiments and loyalty.

Never one to accept defeat, Azazel had simply found another method of controlling the rather strong-willed vessel. A method that the pair used with no qualms.

One of Sam’s lessons was well underway. Each day was something different. While the need for the standard education was accepted- reading, writing, math, etc. It was never the primary focus. Spell work, lore, and weapons. Tactical strategy and the honing of his supernatural abilities were heavily emphasized.

The latter of the subjects was the focus of today, which found Sam locked within a large pine box. It resembled a coffin far too much for the boy’s comfort so he tried not to think about it. The rectangular box was modified with a small window, about where the face would sit on an average person, though it was still too high for the seven year old to see through. It did, however, allow the external noise to filter in unhindered. The current sounds that assaulted Sam’s ears were enough to violently roll his stomach. Already the corner behind him was stained with his vomit. He had tried to bend enough to hit the floor but he knew it was smeared across his clothing. The box was just to narrow for him to avoid it. Rage, misery, and sorrow all fought to overwhelm him and they only grew with each moment.

Dean’s agonized shrieks were too much for his younger brother to bear.

Azazel stood just on the other side of the panel, his shadow obscuring part of the light that came through the screen. He spoke calmly, voice steady despite the horror that was occurring only feet from him.

“Focus, Sam. All you need to do is escape the box.”

Another broken, pained yell pierced the air. Spurring a new wave of hot tears to cascade down reddened cheeks. Sam’s sharp nose was seeping blood at an alarming pace and a raging migraine consumed his skull.

“Shatter the lock. Burn the wood. Anything, just get out and this is over.”

“Not too soon, though.” A nasally voice joined in with Azazel’s. “Dean and I are having so much fun. Aren’t we, Deano?”

Another breath-stealing, heart-stopping scream retched the atmosphere in response. Followed by a sinister chuckle.

Roaring in frustration and grief, the box began to shake more than it already had been. Rocking and creaking but not breaking. The lights in the room began to flicker as quickly as a strobe.

“Come on, boy. I know you can do it this time.”

Sam had come so close many time before. He had split the screen, exploded lights, and scorched the wood with the box but he had never escaped. “Please. Please, please, please.” He was unaware of the whispers that fell from his chapped lips. His forehead was pressed against the vibrating pine wood and his palms lay flat, fingers splayed to frame his head.

“Do it, Sam.”

Taking a deep, ragged breath, Sam put every once of his being into the task. An equally pained shout tore from him before the box stopped it’s trembling and the lights fell steady once more.

“He’s out.” Azazel sighed, unlocking and pulling open the wooden panel. He reacted just in time to catch the unconscious child as he fell through the opening. His nose wrinkled at the smell of the vomit.

“He’s still too young.” Alastair sneered before delivering one last jab to the trembling figure below him. The baton was one of his own design. One of his proudest creations. Infused with the venom of the bullet ant- a fearsome creature that possessed the most painful sting known to human kind. It was a weapon that was feared for good reason. The rod always produced the most wonderful cacophony of shrieks when applied to tender skin.

Eleven year old Dean, pride of Heaven, lay sobbing. Curled into a tight ball, hands tugging tightly upon his dirty hair. Desperate for relief- for escape, he was rocking himself minutely.

Grimacing as he faced another disappointment, Azazel carried his charge over to the nearby bed. It was made of a metal frame, securely bolted into the concrete floor, and a thin mattress. Meanwhile, Alastair began to recite a rather complicated spell. Also his own creation, it was a modified version of a healing Celtic enchantment. With his adjustments, it would now heal the body of all injuries but the pain would remain. The flesh would be intact for another day. Alastair had yet to find something that would even scar once the spell was recited- not that he hadn’t tried. Alas, the pain only remained at half-strength and for a short amount of time than the true injury would have. Nothing in the physical world was perfect, after all. Alastair could hardly wait to drag the boy into the darkest corners of torment. There the possibilities were endless.

Sam was carefully lain out upon the bed and tucked underneath his blanket, after his soiled clothing had been removed and another clean shirt was upon his shoulders. Reaching forward, Azazel began to wipe the blood from the Boy King’s lips and chin. The red stain appeared again almost immediately as another blood vessel burst within his nose. Knowing it would not stop for a short while, the older ‘man’ left the rag laying across the boy’s lower face to continue and absorb the fluid.

Alastair was just completing his ritual as Azazel returned to his side. Dean still lay where he had been, albeit, he was more relaxed than he had been before the spell. Blood was also congealed along his chin and cheeks. He had bitten through the tip of tongue at one point during the lesson- clean through the thick muscle. The severed flesh now sat upon the concrete near Dean’s head, looking red and swollen.

The spell had already repaired and regrown the body part. His broken ankle had also been reset. The white flash of bone that had once been visible was how returned to it’s rightful place, mended and whole.

The injury had been punishment. Dean had tried to fight against Alastair, grabbing the rod from the man’s grasp and trying to stab it into his tormentor. The scuffle had been short-lived. With a twist of his wrist, Alastair had snapped Dean’s ankle without any physical touch before another twitch ripped the weapon from his hand. It may have been a pathetic attempt but Alastair only grinned brighter. The boy had not yet been broken. Alastair’s fun was sure to continue for more years to come.

Azazel smirked as he observed Alastair’s currently mournful expression. Even though the spell used would heal all physical damage, the stress of the whole experience took a toll upon the body, mind, and spirit. The extreme pressures forced upon the human did not simply disappear but, would instead, continue to build with each new trauma. After a sessions like this, Dean’s spiritual dam was nearing it’s limit. The one time that Alastair had pushed the child further than this, Dean had not woken for over a week.

Which meant that Alastair’s fun was finished for now.

“You shall have your time soon, my friend.” Azazel reminded him, reaching up to pat his partner on the shoulder.

Alastair would but for now, Dean was needed. Sam was not yet ready. When that time came, Sam would be the one to end his brother’s life. His final test to solidify the future. Considering the boy’s complete lack of control over his slowly growing powers and his annoying loyalty to Dean, that day seemed to be a long time in coming.

“Yeah,” Alastair scoffed as he used the tip of his boot to flip Dean partially over, further revealing his face and heaving chest. Green eyes were unfocused, half-closed. His dry lips were moving- just barely to the point that it was easy to miss. Heightened hearing could only just understand the whispered pleading.

“Sammy, Sammy, please- please, Sammy.”

The words were a desperate parody of those of his younger brother. He had not yet realized that lesson was over. Shrugging as Alastair gave a dry chuckle, Azazel turned to vanish the large box with a wave of his hand before the pair left. Leaving Sam to his unconscious state and Dean to his overly-taxed and fragile psyche, still muttering where he lay. Another lesson would await them tomorrow. One that would move the young Boy King closer to being the perfect vessel for their Dark Lord.


	2. Never Laugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alastair isn't to coddle but he does love his nursery rhymes.

_“Don’t ever laugh when a hearse goes by.”_

Alastair’s nasally voice seemed to echo down the hallway before the man had even opened the door to the basement. Dean didn’t know how he did it- but he knew he must do it on purpose. Alastair must know how the first few notes of the song would send Dean into an unprecedented panic. A song that Dean had not known until he had met the cruel man.

_“For you may be the next to die._   
_They wrap you up in bloody sheets,_   
_To drop you six feet underneath.”_

Dean was frozen in place, sitting on the bed, completely helpless and unable to move. There was no where to run to. No where to hide. He knew what Alastair wanted. He wanted him to shake. To tremble so violently that you could hear your own teeth clattering. That whatever urine may have been within your bladder to leak out with no control. Dean didn’t want to give the man such satisfaction but he couldn’t help it.

_“They put you in pinewood box_   
_and cover you up with dirt and rocks.”_

Alastair tortured him relentlessly with the tune. The dark song were whispered into Dean’s ear as pain overwhelmed the child. As raw fear coursed through his veins. The man would repeatedly remind him that Dean would experience each lyric firsthand- and that he would be awake and aware of each one of them. And, Dean believed him. No one had ever spelled it out for Dean but he knew that Alastair and Azazel weren’t human. He feared that Sammy wasn’t human either- they all had weird powers and Dean had seen all of their eyes change colors before.   
Alastair in particular would flash his often, especially when Dean was younger. Those white eyes would invoke terror as knobby hands grasped at him while he hid underneath the rickety bed. He would be dragged out and stripped, spanked without mercy, all while Alastair’s white eyes twinkled with glee.

Now, Dean missed those days. A spanking was child’s play compared to what the man was capable of.

_“It all goes well for about a week.”_

Dean took another deep, shuttering breath, hugging his stomach while it rolled violently. He would have puked if there had been anything in it. The first creak of the basement steps warned Dean of the man’s impending arrival. He wished so desperately that he could have plugged his ears, to block out all noise, but it never worked. Alastair made sure it didn’t. Dean could hear it in his head, clear as day, every time. The chorus was the worst. Dean had weathered many beatings while the song was sung, each blow matching the beat of the tune.

_“And then your coffin begins to leak._   
_And the worms crawl in, and the worms crawl out._   
_The worms play pinochle on your snout.”_

Dean still had no idea what pinochle was but he didn’t really care. If Alastair wanted him to know, he would. Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise for when he went to He- for when he died.

_“They eat your eye, they eat your nose,_   
_As you begin to decompose.”_

Alastair kept reminding Dean that he would get to experience decomposing first hand. That he would keep him, trapped within his body, until that body was mere dust and then he would be brought into the underworld.

_“A slimy beetle with demon eyes.”_

Dean knew that’s what Alastair and Azazel were. He knew it, but he couldn’t yet bring himself to face it. To ever say it. His mom had always told him that angels were watching over him and if demons were real- then where were his angels?

_“Chews through your stomach and out of your sides,_   
_Your stomach turns to rancid grease_   
_and puss pours out like melted cheese.”_

Dean could hear Alastair directly outside the door now. He could hear the clanking of the metal key within rusted locks.

_“You spread it on a slice of bread_   
_and that’s what you’ll eat when your dead.”_

The door opened but Alastair’s hand was void of the plate holding oozing pus or bread and cheese. Both had made appearances before but Dean had found both equally repulsive, just another screw driven into his cracked psyche.   
Sam had left this morning with Azazel for an educational trip. They did them a lot. To historical battlegrounds to study war tactics, to business meetings deep in the slums of some city- all to further Sam’s lessons. Dean always dreaded the times that Sam left him. And, he envied him. Dean had never left this room. Instead, he spent hours staring out the window, pretending that he was outside with a mommy and daddy and baby Sam again. When his biggest concern was a scraped knee or the monster in his closet.   
But, now, the monster had escaped the closet and was far to real. Alastair hurt him when Sam was there, too, but that was for lessons. When Sam did what they wanted or passed out, Alastair would stop. It was different when Sam was gone. Alastair simply had fun then.

_“And the worms crawl out, and the worms crawl in._   
_The ones that crawl in are lean and thin._   
_The ones that crawl out are fat and stout.”_

Alastair was in the room now, standing right before the trembling child. His thin lips were moving with the lyrics but Dean was having a hard time connecting the motion with the words. Everything seemed to be floating around him, twisting and turning like a fun-house mirror.

_“Your eyes fall in and your hair falls out._   
_You brain turns into maggot pie._   
_You liver starts to liquefy.”_

To Dean, it felt like that had already started- along with every part of him. He felt both too heavy and too light. His muscles like jello.

“And for the living, all was well.”

That was true. Dean didn’t know how they did it but his window face a children’s park. Colorful playground equipment full of laughing, happy kids. Screaming, shrieking, throwing things at the glass- nothing had drawn any attention. The children played and the adults conversed. Life continued without him.

_“And the flames rise up to drag you down_   
_Into the fire where you’ll drown_   
_Your skin melts off as you descend..”_

The nasally singing cut off and Dean could feel the lean man staring at him. White eyes boring into him. It took a few tries but eventually, Dean got his voice to work. Somewhat singing but mostly just croaking out the last few lines. Lines that Dean knew were written specifically to torment him.

“...and Alastair tears you limb from limb.   
Your suffering will never end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! They always make my day!


	3. Life is no picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I hope there a only a few mistakes in here. I wasn't able to proof read this time- puppies are so needy! LOL

Alastair almost broke into a fit of giggles when, entering the basement room, he was greeted by a petulant Dean Winchester. The five year old was sitting on his cot, back leaned against the far wall. His small pajama clad feet barely reached the end of the mattress. The clothing was beginning to tighten around the child as he grew, hugging him uncomfortably. He was going to need a new outfit soon but the thought of leaving Dean with nothing was tempting. Naked, cold, and miserable.

Alastair knew that he would do it someday soon but that didn’t fit into his plans today.

Dean’s glare was as strong as the child could muster. Holding as much fury as the small package could contain. Short arms, still pudgy with lingering baby fat, were crossed over his chest. Lips pulled tightly into a frown, dirt smudged cheeks, and greasy hair that still managed to defy gravity; Dean was a sight to see. If you were to have seen him out in the world, one would have thought him just another child, pouting over a required bath- except for the tension that seemed to vibrant through Dean’s entire being.

Alastair stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the boy expectantly. Waiting on him, but Dean did nothing but glower, his gaze accusatory and challenging.

“Deano, you know what you’re supposed to do.”

Dean visibly crumpled, shoulders hunching in and head drooping. Fear flashed through those green eyes before the boy seemed to rally. Straightening upright again, his youthful voice was firm. “Where’s Sammy?”

Alastair rolled his eyes- it was always the same with this kid. _Where’s Sammy? Give me Sammy. I need Sammy._

A single raised eyebrow made Dean reconsider his stance. A clear warning to do what he had been told.

Dean knew he should stop. That he should just say those stupid (scary) words that the man told him to say. But the man was mean and he said mean things- and he hurt him. Sometimes a lot. Dean just wanted to be with Sammy. That other man, the one with the yellow eyes and a slimy voice, had taken him away that morning. Dean didn’t see that man very much but he liked him better than Alastair. He didn’t hurt Dean. Sometimes he would shove him, but only a little, and he called Dean names a lot. It wasn’t nice but it was better than the games Alastair always wanted to play.

Those games weren’t fun- not for Dean but the scarecrow seemed to like them. The boy smirked just a little to himself. Alastair hated the nickname. Dean had only said it once out loud but he had learned to never say it again. He was to call Alastair ‘sir’ all the time but Dean still used the title in his head. Besides they called him mean things all the time, so he should be able to too.

“Now, Dean, you know we can’t play any games until you greet me like you’re supposed to.” His nasally voice almost sang the sentence as he scolded the boy. Matching key with the music that still filtered low through the air. “You don’t want to miss our game today, do you?”

Dean did. He really, _really_ did.

Dean never knew when the scarecrow was coming. Sometimes it was days and sometimes it was long enough that Dean lost count of the number of times the sun had come and gone through the window. He knew those times had to be more than ten. Maybe even more than a hundred! He liked those times, hoped they would last forever and Alastair would never come back. But Alastair always did and Dean knew that stalling didn’t mean that he wouldn’t have to play the game.

_Adults know whats best, Dean._

Alastair reminded Dean of that a lot but he knew what it really meant.

_Adults always get their way._

It wasn't fair and it wasn’t nice but Dean was learning that he didn’t have any choice in the matter. Whatever the scarecrow wanted, he got. Whatever he needed Dean to do, Dean would eventually be forced to do. But it made Dean mad and he found himself trying to buck the system anyways. He had to try.

Dean gave another small shake of his head, resolving himself for the fight. “No.” He stated with only a tiny waver in his voice. “I-I want Sammy and I don’t want to play any games- or watch your movies.” Dean added as an afterthought.

The movies the scarecrow made him watch were really scary. People would scream and run and hide- and be found. Sometimes there were monsters or real scarecrows that hurt people. They would die and there would be blood. Lots of it. At night, Dean would sometimes see the monsters in his room, coming to get him. On those nights, Dean would take his brother and hide. Under the bed, pressed up against the wall, until the sun came back.

This time, it was Alastair turn to shake his head, tsking through his teeth. He then sighed as Dean continued to glare at him, not budging from his stance. Walking over, the man came to a stop in front of Dean. Getting more nervous, Dean slowly pulled his feet in, moving slowly as though to go unnoticed by the predator, until his knees were tucked under his chin.

Alastair’s next move to the boy by surprise. Instead of grabbing him or hitting him, the scarecrow sat down beside him on the cot. He was facing forward but soon twisted enough that he could look down at the child.

“You know you’re not going to win, don’t you?” The question was rhetorical, its tone almost tired, but Dean shrugged slightly anyways as he looked away- unable to keep the intimidating man’s gaze any longer. Tears had begun to brim in his eyes. He knew was going to lose. He always lost, but the reality was too overwhelming to accept.

“Now, do you have something to say to me or are you going to have another spanking?”

Dean visibly shuttered. He would likely get a spanking anyways, he never managed to do anything right for Alastair, but maybe he wouldn’t have to get two. “N-no.”

The scarecrow continued to watch him expectantly.

“...and Alastair tears you limb from limb. Your suffering will never end.”

Dean hated those words. They were mean and scary and were nothing like the music that his mom had listened to.

“Thank you, Dean.” Alastair’s big hand suddenly reached out and Dean flinched away, only stopping as he was blocked by the concrete wall. Surprisingly, nothing happened- nothing stung or ached. The man hadn’t hit him. Instead the hand was patting him, gently, on the head. “Because you were so nice and obedient, I’m going to let you pick what we do today.”

Slowly, curious and slightly hopeful, Dean sat up a little bit. He was eyeing the man critically. He got to choose? That had never happened before. It had to be a trick.

“Can we go find Sammy?” Dean asked hesitantly.

“Sorry, bud. That’s not one of the choices. You can either play a game, have a picnic, or watch a movie.” Alastair laid out the options for him, clearly awaiting an answer.

Dean’s ears had perked. They had never had a picnic before. He paused, nothing was ever that same with the scarecrow. He sometimes said one thing but meant another. He was a liar and Dean knew he couldn’t really trust him. “-what game?”

Alastair’s grin grew wider, creepier. “I can’t tell you that, Deano. It would ruin the surprise.”

“...what movie?”

The chuckle was dark, disconcerting. “Can’t tell you that either.”

Dean was now shifting in his seat, weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders. What if he chose the wrong one? Was he going to get in trouble if he did? He desperately wanted to know what game they would play. The games always hurt somehow- he even bled sometimes. But the movies were scary and then he couldn’t sleep for days.

The picnic was new. Dean was hungry since he hadn’t eaten yet. Maybe it would be okay? Maybe Alastair was starting to kinda like him? He had been good today- Alastair had said so. Child like hope, far too innocent, showed upon the boy’s expression as he picked the picnic. It shone even brighter when Alastair reached outside the door to return with a legit picnic basket. Red and white checkered blanket and everything.

Soon the pair was sitting cross legged on the cement floor, a plastic container of food in front of each of them.

That day, only a short while after the picnic had ended, did the vomiting begin. Then the diarrhea, the headache, the chills. Alastair finally stepped in to stop the process when blood had begun to seep from Dean’s nose and mouth.

One chant, one spell, and the child was right as rain and ready for his tormented life to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoped you liked it! Let me know what you think. This may have seem kinda mild but, I promise, things will get bleaker as Dean ages.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked it. Please comment for me! I love hearing from you !


End file.
